


Be Safe, Gentle Stranger

by lindafishes8



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 16:51:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8675191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindafishes8/pseuds/lindafishes8
Summary: Written for the 2016 Halloween Challenge in LJ. The prompt was a photograph of an old, dusty library with books strewn everywhere.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JantoJones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JantoJones/gifts).



Illya was running hard and fast from a couple of bad guys. He had received a tip from an informant and interrupted a dead-drop meant for THRUSH. Still dressed in his best navy blue suit from an earlier assignment he hadn’t a chance to change. It was almost midnight and the streets were dark in this area of town. Streetlight bulbs had been smashed and the only light source was the full harvest moon. Illya inadvertently stumbled down an alley which turned out to be a cul-de-sac. With no way out, he fought the mounting sense of panic which was threatening to rear its ugly head. He pushed it down and mentally prepared himself to take a stance against the two hoods. 

 

Out of the corner of his eye, a red door came into view. With no time to pick any lock and hoping against hope, he tried the knob and miraculously, the door opened to his heavy-handed pull. He entered and slammed the door shut behind him. It was pitch black inside. Too late he thought there might be danger here, but the danger outside was a certainty. He noted a strong scent of, what was it, lemons? 

 

He fumbled in his jacket pocket until he found just what he needed, a book of matches he’d pilfered from a coffee house somewhere in Greenwich Village. Striking a match he silently praised himself for keeping a matchbook on his person.  One never knew when matches would come in handy, like now!  He studied the door and was able to secure the deadbolt and contact headquarters briefly before the match burnt out. There was no doubt in his mind that the two goons would break down the door shortly.  _ A bit of explosive in the proper place and…  _  He needed to find another way out.

 

Kuryakin turned around, struck another match, and was startled by his own reflection staring back at him from the glass doors of a bookcase.  _ Steady, Kuryakin. _ No point adding more adrenalin to his already overtaxed nervous system. He quickly scanned the room to find he was standing in a pristine library. Highly polished walnut cabinets with gleaming glass doors stood, floor to ceiling displaying thousands of books. A pair of winged, high-back leather chairs and a dark crimson crushed velvet sofa were the only furnishings along with an oval, wooden table. The room reminded him of a study belonging to one of his professors from his time at Cambridge. It had been offered by the kindly instructor as a place of refuge. He’d spent many happy hours there, selecting volumes to read then, making a mental list of titles and authors of others he’d like to read later, between terms at University. 

 

_ “Chyort, _ ” he cried as his fingertips were scorched by the dying flame; instinctively, his hand flew to his mouth to cool them quickly. He struck another and found a wall sconce full of candles to light.

 

With the added light of several candles, he scanned the room more thoroughly. Above a fireplace on the far wall hung a large portrait of a lovely young woman in a blue ball gown. She was in her twenties with raven-black hair and strikingly clear green eyes. 

 

“Hello, sweet lady,“ he whispered as if afraid someone might hear. “I need sanctuary tonight if you don’t mind.” 

 

Captivated by her beauty, Illya was enraptured for a moment before turning away.  _ Down, boy. This is no time for dreaming, _ he thought.

 

“Hello? Anyone here?” Not waiting for a reply, he searched the room in hopes of finding an entrance to the rest of, what was this, someone’s home? Strangely, there was none.

 

His pursuers were already attempting to gain entry. It would only a matter of a few minutes, but Illya knew they would get in without too much effort.  _ Why was the door left open, _ he wondered. _ This is a fine library; it should be protected and not left open for anyone to wander in off the street. _ Illya selected a section of bookshelves, lifted a copy of  Dante’s Inferno , slipped the note he’d retrieved from the dead-drop inside, and returned the book to its' original position. _ How apropos, _ he mused, as on the note was written the blueprint for a new type of small but powerful incendiary.  

 

He managed to close the bookcase, return to a central spot in the room and raise his weapon before a small explosion rocked the room’s only door. It burst open and his pursuers entered the library. Their faces grimy and hair unkempt, their clothes were ill-fitting; they truly deserved the ‘thugs’ title Illya had mentally given them. They were both sweating profusely and panting from the ordeal.  _ If I hadn’t made that wrong turn, I would have easily outrun them,  _ he lamented.

 

“Where... is it…  U.N.C.L.E. man?” demanded the shorter of the two, between gasps for breath. Both of their guns were aimed at his head.

 

The other, taller goon chimed in. “This here’s the famous Illya Kuryakin, Harry. One of U.N.C.L.E.’s top enforcement agents. The big boss’ll be grateful we got ‘em. Hand it over!” 

 

Illya offered his Special, handle first.

 

“And now the plan!” 

 

“Sorry.” There was no sense denying he’d taken it; they’d caught him in the act. His only defense was to stall and hope the back-up he called for would arrive soon.

 

“Frisk him,” ordered the taller THRUSH after instructing Illya to place his hands on the wall. The Russian managed to appear aloof. He hated being manhandled, but this was all part of his life as a spy. 

  
  


“He ain’t got it,” Harry grunted after turning out his pockets and relieving him of his communicator and money-clip. He placed the items in his own pockets. “Wheredja hide it or are we gonna have ta do a strip search?” 

 

Illya felt uneasy about the way the two exchanged unspoken signals but he managed to shrug and say, “I placed it in one of these books.” He smiled as the goons surveyed the many shelves. Illya continued. “You know what a book is, don’t you? A  printed work consisting of pages glued or sewn together along one side and bound in a cover.  No doubt your teachers attempted to instruct you on how to read one. Perhaps you’ve forgotten how.”

 

That remark earned him a hard back-handed slap across the face. He tasted blood from his now split lip.

 

They shoved him towards a chair, forced him down into the seat and handcuffed his wrists to the arms.

 

“Ya know what comes next, mister wise-ass? We’re gonna beat you to a bloody pulp unless you tell us what book its' in.” Harry cracked his knuckles, enthused for the chance to punch his captive.

 

Kuryakin maintained an air of indifference until the first fist hit him in the gut.

 

An “oof” escaped his lips and he doubled over as far as the chair would allow. He’d mentally set his muscles so this round of pummeling wouldn’t damage him too badly. 

 

**“Nooooooooooo!!!”**

 

A woman’s scream startled all three men and caused them turn to their heads in her direction. 

 

A figure emerged from the shadows: Black hair, green eyes, blue gown.

 

_ It’s the girl in the painting! _ Illya turned to scan the now empty portrait and then stared back at the woman. She was shaking with anger, a gleaming dagger in her right hand was plainly visible. Illya could hardly believe his eyes. _ Maybe she’s a hologram. She certainly is not a… there’s no such thing as… a ghost! _

 

Her tone was polite yet her words were threatening. “You two highwaymen will leave this man alone or I will harm you!” 

 

“Highwaymen?” Harry laughed. “Wheredja you come up with that word? This guy stole our property and we’re gonna make him give it back.”

 

“The gentleman is welcome here. You are not,” she said, raising the knife up threateningly, though her countenance was demure.

 

“Please, Miss,” Illya pleaded, not wanting her to be harmed, whoever she was. “Do not involve yourself. This is not your affair.” 

 

Harry struck him in the back of the head with his weapon to shut him up, inadvertently knocking him out cold.

 

“We’ll see who does the leavin’, Missy,” the taller thug announced. He raised his gun and fired directly at her.

 

Nothing happened except for the tinkling of smashed and broken glass.

 

“What the hell? Harry, shoot her.” 

 

Both fired again and again until all the bullets had been spent. The projectiles hit the bookcases directly behind her. Shards of glass and bits of wood and paper flew everywhere, including the eyes of Harry and ‘tall guy’ blinding them and causing them cry out in horror and agony. 

 

“I warned you brutes.” Completely unscathed, she attacked the THRUSH men, stabbing them repeatedly and leaving both bleeding on the library floor.

 

She glided over to the unconscious Russian and knelt beside him, gently resting her hand on his. With her other hand, she tenderly brushed bits of broken glass from his hair and then laid it on his scalp where he’d been struck.   

                                                            o/O/o

 

Sometime later, Napoleon removed the handcuffs, rousing his partner with a gentle pat on the cheek. He’d homed in on Illya’s communicator signal and arrived within twenty minutes. Kuryakin blinked himself awake. Groggy from having his brains scrambled, he gingerly felt the bump on his head. “You’re late,” Illya snapped.

 

“Hit on the noggin again?” Napoleon tsked. “I swear, IK, it’s a wonder you can remember your own name after all the concussions you’ve suffered.” 

 

Illya ignored him. “Why doesn’t it even hurt? What happened? Where is she?”

 

“Where is who? The only other people here are these two; both dead, by the way. It appears they’ve been sliced to ribbons.”

 

“There was a beautiful woman... with a knife.” Illya was adamant. “The one in the painting.” He stood shakily and stumbled towards the portrait.  Solo steadied him until he got his bearings. 

 

She was back in the frame. 

 

“Illya, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this place was abandoned quite some time ago. That woman is most likely dead by now.” Solo eyes were narrowed with concern. Had Illya been hallucinating?

 

Illya scanned the library. Once pristine and freshly polished, it was in ruins. It smelled of mold and dust and decay. Books were strewn everywhere and a thick coat of dust covered almost everything.

 

“You say said these men died from being cut by shards of glass?”

 

Solo nodded.

 

“Not from knife wounds?”

 

Solo shook his head. “They bled out. Autopsy will tell us for certain. Does it matter?”

 

“I suppose not.”

 

“But she was here! I’m certain she’s the one who killed those two,” he said nodding towards the bodies.  His gaze returned to the woman in the portrait.

 

“Look, Napoleon, there are red stains on her dress. Those weren’t there before. I would have noticed.”

 

“Sure,  _ tovarisch, _ whatever you say. Let’s get you back to headquarters; a nice, soft bed in Medical has your name written all over it. You still have the dead-drop item?”

 

"I'll get it. Grab my gun from that one's pockets, will you?" He pointed to Harry's body. “My communicator and money clip as well."

 

Illya retrieved the book and opened it. The title page of  Dante's Inferno  was inscribed. ‘Be safe, gentle stranger. You will always find sanctuary here.’ It was signed ‘Dawn.’

 

Before leaving the scene for the clean-up team, Illya turned to Napoleon. “One would believe the place was haunted if one believed in such things. What do I write in my report?” 

 

“Just lead with the bump on the head. Waverly will understand.”

 

Neither man had noticed as they turned their backs to exit that the figure in the painting began to softly weep.


End file.
